


The Mastersinger

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the outstanding English tenor Ernest Nightingale comes to Castle Wulfenbach to give singing lessons to Gil's son Aristide, he is not expecting to find a Jäger in the equation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mastersinger

“Ardsley,” said Gil, “you can sing, can't you?”

I blinked at him. “That has to be the oddest question you've ever asked me out of the blue. Yes, I can, after a fashion; I've been in a couple of amateur Gilbert & Sullivan productions. I was even Pish-Tush in one of them. But I'm not trained, or anything.”

He gave me a sidelong grin. “You were _what?”_

“Pish-Tush. That was the character's name. He was, er, some kind of official. It was a long time ago. Why?”

“Well, it's Aristide,” he explained. “You know how I decided from the start I wasn't going to order him around the way my father ordered me. I hated it, and it just made me rebellious and angry. I want to do things by negotiation. Now, I want him to learn Latin, because it will help him vastly with other languages; but he doesn't see the purpose in it. He would, however, like to have singing lessons, and I don't know if you've heard him, but he's got a very nice tenor. So I've told him he can have singing lessons as long as he also learns Latin, and he's agreed to that. The thing is now arranging the singing lessons, and now he knows a bit of English, I would really like him to have an English singing teacher. I wondered if you could recommend anyone.”

“Oh, I know just the man, if he'll agree to do it,” I replied promptly. “His name is Ernest Nightingale.”

“Seriously? Nightingale?”

“Yes, everyone asks that, but it is his real name,” I assured him, “and he certainly does sing like one. I suppose if your name's Nightingale and you're a professional singer, you do rather need to be excellent. He's a tenor. Not well known outside his specialist field, which is baroque and early music; you will never see him on the stage at La Scala, because he simply doesn't have that kind of heavy operatic voice. But I have heard Aristide sing, and he has the same type of light, pure voice which I think Mr Nightingale would bring out very effectively. I would worry about some voice teachers trying to push him into the operatic mould, simply because it's more, shall we say, standard.”

“H'mm. Sounds good,” said Gil. “And why might he not agree to do it?”

“Because he has a very busy concert schedule. He's not, as I say, well known, but he's very much in demand among the people who enjoy that type of music. Of course, there is the fact that most of his concerts are over here on the Continent, so it may actually be more convenient for him to be based here; but don't ask him for a regular schedule of lessons, or I doubt you will get him. He's likely to have to fit the lessons round everything else he does.”

“That's not a problem, if he's as good as you say,” replied Gil. “All right. Can you apply your diplomatic charm to this Mr Nightingale and get him over here?”

“I can do my best,” I promised. “But if I do, I'd also like to retain him for a few voice lessons myself. I've been told a few times that I have a good voice and I ought to do something with it; it may be a little late at my age, but you never know. I may get involved in amateur operatics again when I retire.”

“Oh, stop talking like an old man. You're only forty, even if you are looking a bit grey about the temples these days.”

I grinned. “I am not, at least, going bald.”

“Get wound, Ardsley,” he said, grinning back. “As long as nobody else notices these are implants, I consider I am doing all right.”

“I did see you making them in the lab,” I said mildly. “And I will concede you did an excellent job.”

“You don't suppose Agatha noticed, do you?”

“I really don't think Agatha would care if you were as bald as an egg, Gil,” I replied. “She doesn't love you for your coiffure.”

“Heh. Well, anyway, certainly, if he can fit you in for lessons as well, that's no problem. Just as long as you understand he's primarily here for Aristide.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

And so diplomatic negotiations commenced. Things proved to be quite complicated, because there was not just one Nightingale to consider. There was also a Mrs Nightingale and a number of small Nightingales, and these all had to be accommodated on Castle Wulfenbach, education had to be arranged for the children, and so on. Added to that was the fact that Gil wanted him for a trial period first, just in case he turned out not to be suitable for Aristide; the young man, after all, had a hot temper, and Gil wanted to be certain that Mr Nightingale could handle him. Given the other factors, the length of this trial period was a matter for fairly intensive negotiation. However, finally it was agreed that it should be three months, and if that proved satisfactory, he and his family would stay for the rest of the year.

Oh, and there was also a velocipede; but that, in comparison to everything else, was easy. I merely gave him permission to store it in one of the sheds at the Embassy. Even the most eccentric singer is hardly going to need to ride a velocipede around Castle Wulfenbach.

Once all these matters had been arranged, Gil decided that he might as well have a command performance after all this trouble, and asked me to sort out someone to accompany Mr Nightingale. “I'd normally ask one of my staff,” he explained, apologetically, “but you know him, and you know the sort of music he sings. I don't want to risk getting the wrong instruments for his repertoire.”

“In that case,” I said, “I shall simply find a good lutenist and a good harpsichordist, let him know, and ask him to sing his favourite pieces.”

“Oh, well, in that case, if we already know what instrumentalists he'll want, I'll ask Boris to get them,” said Gil. “You've already gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

Boris is not familiar with that repertoire; he is, as one might expect, more of a Tchaikovsky person. However, he is thorough, and if Gil asks him to find good performers on particular instruments, he will reliably find them. So they were found, Mr Nightingale was duly put in touch with them, and Boris and I both then sat back, confident that the precise details of the command performance were now being arranged competently without any assistance from either of us.

It was, I have to say, an excellent concert. Gil does not often have concerts on board Castle Wulfenbach, preferring in general to attend them elsewhere; but this was a welcome exception, and, of course, it did help that there were just three musicians rather than a full orchestra. Mr Nightingale came out with the lutenist in the first half and sang some of his mediaeval repertoire, and then after the interval the harpsichordist replaced the lutenist and we covered the period from Purcell to Handel.

“If he's as good a teacher as he is a singer, he's going to be outstanding,” said Gil in the interval. “I must admit, though, when he walked onto the stage I didn't think he looked like much.”

“Looks are not really the point of a singer, Gil,” I observed.

“I didn't mean he's ugly. I mean there's nothing of him. I can hear how good his breath control is; he must have an astonishing pair of lungs. But where the hell does he keep them?”

Maxim, who was still here on secondment, leaned over my shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “He goink to teach Aristide, ja?”

“He is, Maxim,” I replied.

“Und... did hy hear he goink to teach hyu too?”

“Yes, that's right,” I said, wondering exactly where this conversation was going.

“Hyu tink he might teach me?”

Ah. So that was where. Well, there was no denying that Maxim did have a nice tenor, but I was not sure Mr Nightingale had ever met a Jäger, let alone taught one.

“Well, Maxim,” I said. “Suppose we go and talk to him about that afterwards?”

“Hokay!” he exclaimed, happily. “Hy vant to be able to sing yust like heem.”

Nice tenor or not, that was likely to take several years of practice; but still, it was a noble goal.

After the concert, then, Maxim and I went to find Mr Nightingale, who by this time was positively radiating good cheer; it was more than evident that he loved what he did with a passion. “Mr Nightingale,” I said, “that was outstanding. I'm Lord Heversham, the British Ambassador.”

“Ah, my esteemed correspondent!” He beamed. “Delighted to meet you at last, my lord. Thank you so much. And this is...?”

“This is Maxim,” I replied.

“Hyu vos goot,” said Maxim, enthusiastically. “Hyu vos so goot hy vanted to make hyu a hat on der schpot.”

I smiled. “I don't know how much you know about the Jägerkin, Mr Nightingale, but that is very high praise indeed.”

“Very little, I fear; in fact, you are the first I have had the honour to meet, er... Maxim.”

“They don't use surnames,” I explained, quickly.

“Ah! I see. Well, thank you, Maxim; you are very kind.” He paused. “Now, you were also wanting some lessons, my lord, but if you recall I said I should like to hear you first. Would it be convenient to arrange a time for that now?”

“If it is convenient for you, we could do that now, while I am here,” I replied. “But Maxim has just told me that he would also like some lessons, if that is possible.”

Mr Nightingale's eyes opened very wide. “Ah. Well. I, ah... I understand that the Jäger anatomy is not quite like the human anatomy, and this may... well... anyway, perhaps I should hear Maxim first and see what I can do afterwards.”

“Hy can sing,” Maxim assured him earnestly. “Hy qvite goot. Hy yust vant to be better.”

“He's right,” I said. “He really is quite good.”

Mr Nightingale made a little apologetic bow. “Forgive me for doubting. It is simply that, obviously, the construction of the vocal tract makes a great deal of difference.” He paused. “If you would not mind giving me a few minutes to change and to go and thank my accompanists, gentlemen, I shall see you shortly.”

“Certainly,” I said.

He bowed again and left us. Maxim gave me a disappointed look. “He dun vant to teach me,” he said.

“No, Maxim, I think you've read him the wrong way,” I replied. “He was startled at first, certainly; but now he's curious. You see, he's an expert at what he does, and nobody ever becomes an expert at anything unless they have the attitude that they always want to learn more. And if he thinks he can teach you at all, I think he'll jump at the chance, because he will learn a great deal from teaching someone with a non-human vocal tract.”

“Hy dun tink my voice box is dat much different,” said Maxim thoughtfully. “But... hy suppose it must be a bit, because hy know hy dun sound like hy did before hy vos a Jäger.”

“That must be a long time ago,” I observed.

“Ho no, not zo long. Hy only been a Jäger about two hundred und fifty years. Not like de Generals.”

“Great Scott, Maxim,” I said, with a start. “You were around when some of those pieces we've just heard were being written.” I paused. “So you must know what they sounded like when they were first played. Maxim, you need to tell Mr Nightingale that. He's going to be so excited he'll probably write a baroque opera on the spot.”

Maxim grinned. “Vell, hy might if hy had been sittink around listenink to music at der time. Mostly, hy vos out knockink pipple's heads off.”

“Ah,” I said. “Yes. Perhaps we won't tell Mr Nightingale that, then.”

Mr Nightingale returned, dressed much less formally, and paradoxically looking a great deal neater for it. He seemed to be one of those men who find formal attire a little daunting, despite the fact that he had to wear it routinely in the course of his profession; he had, it was true, started the concert looking very neat and dapper, but as it went on he had gradually become more and more dishevelled, until by the end of the concert almost everything about him was somewhat askew. He beamed at us.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said. “If you'd like to come through here, Frau Kanzler has very kindly agreed to stay a little while and provide any harpsichord accompaniment that may be needed.”

“Here” proved to be a medium-sized lounge, into which some of Gil's staff were just moving the harpsichord when we arrived. Frau Kanzler settled down in front of it and played a few scales to ensure that moving it had not affected the tuning, and Mr Nightingale stood and listened carefully.

“Your E flat,” he said. “This one.” He indicated.

Frau Kanzler played a chord, frowned, then played a different chord. “Really, Herr Nightingale?”

“Yes. It's only a little out, but it is slightly flat. It should sound like this.” He hummed a note which, certainly to my ears, was indistinguishable from the disputed note.

“Oh!” exclaimed Frau Kanzler. “Yes. You are quite right.” She slid underneath the instrument and tweaked some crucial peg somewhere, then played the note again. “Better?”

“Very slightly sharp now, I'm afraid.” He hummed it again. “Although there are certain mediaeval tunings in which that would be perfect, of course.”

She smiled. “I'm not an expert on mediaeval tunings, I'm afraid, Herr Nightingale. One moment.” She adjusted the peg again, then tried the note a third time.

“It's absolutely right now,” he said, cheerfully.

Once everyone was satisfied that the harpsichord was in tune, he looked at us. “Now, my lord, I think perhaps I should start with you. You would be, I think, a baritone?”

“Indeed I would,” I replied.

He reached over and played a note on the harpsichord. “Could you please sing me an ascending scale starting on that note? On 'la', or anything else you like. I just want to gauge how well you can stay in tune.”

I obliged. He nodded, seeming quite satisfied, and then played a higher note. “Now, you, Maxim, please do the same, starting on this one.”

I noticed he had not asked Maxim whether or not he was a tenor; it must have been obvious that he was. Still, I suppose that being a tenor himself, it would have been easier for him to tell. Maxim duly sang the scale. Mr Nightingale then put us in turn through various arpeggios, making us sing an ascending series in order to work up to the top of our respective ranges, or at least as near the top as he would let us go for now. Maxim insisted he could go higher, but Mr Nightingale said he was starting to hear some strain in his voice, and that was that. You do not argue with a professional singer who says you are about to strain your voice.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “You do both have good voices, and I would be very happy to work with both of you. However, as I'm aware you already appreciate, I am going to be very busy while I'm here, so I'm wondering now if there's any possibility that I could teach the two of you together. Of course, that will depend very much on what sort of repertoire you want to sing; I can't really have one of you singing Handel and the other Schubert in the same lesson. But if there is some overlap, that would be very useful.”

“Well,” I said, “I was mainly thinking in terms of operetta. Gilbert & Sullivan, specifically, but I also very much enjoy light German operetta and I would like to be able to sing some of that. I'm aware it's a little more advanced, but I'm sure you could teach me. Oh, and possibly also some Handel; I'm very fond of Handel.”

“Yes, Handel would be excellent for your voice. Even if you never sing any more of his work afterwards, I think it would be good for you to sing some while you're learning. But, operetta, yes, absolutely – we can do that. And if you want to do operetta, how about some of the lighter operas as well? Figaro, that kind of thing?”

“Very much Figaro!” I said, with enthusiasm.

“Excellent. All that is very possible. Now... Maxim. What would you particularly like to sing?”

Maxim grinned from ear to ear. “Luff songs.”

“Ah. That does cover rather a wide repertoire,” said Mr Nightingale. “Were there any specific kinds of love songs you wanted to sing?”

“Hy dun mind. Any kind of luff songs, dat vill do for me,” said Maxim. “Hy very easy to suit.”

Mr Nightingale stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Ah. Very well. Perhaps we should work by a process of elimination. Were there any songs I sang this evening that you think you might want to try?”

“Ja,” said Maxim. “Dere vos dat vun about schveet Amaryllis.”

“That was one of the lute songs.” Mr Nightingale looked rather anxiously at Frau Kanzler. “Would you be all right to play it?”

“Unless it's written in lute tablature, I don't think it will be a problem,” she assured him.

“My copy isn't. You'd better take that,” he said. He went over to his music case and fished it out. “Here you are. It's this one.”

“Shall I play it through first?” she enquired.

“Please.” He looked at Maxim. “How is your English? I should warn you, this song is not merely in English; it's in late mediaeval English. When I sing it, I use the best known reconstruction of the original pronunciation. I would not, of course, expect you to do that at this stage, especially since it is not your native language; however, you should know this isn't an easy song. Again, I am really only asking you to sing it so that I can get a basic idea.”

“Hy kind of hokay vit it,” replied Maxim. “But, hy dun haff to underschtand effery vord to sing it.”

“Not for this purpose, no,” Mr Nightingale agreed, equably.

Frau Kanzler played it through, and then Maxim stood behind her and began to sing.

“Hy care not for dese leddies  
Who must be voo'd und pray'd...”

Mr Nightingale held up a hand. “Stop!”

“Hyu got a problem?” asked Maxim, surprised. “Hy tot hy vos doink all right.”

“Musically, you were,” Mr Nightingale agreed. “You were well in tune, and you've got the rhythm very well. It's just... your accent. Could we try sounding a little more... English, please?”

“Hy not sure hy know how to do dat,” said Maxim.

“I do sympathise,” said Mr Nightingale. “Getting an accent right does take a great deal of work. Shall we just say the words to start with, before you worry about singing them?”

“Hokay,” said Maxim, with a shrug.

“All right. One line at a time, then. I care not for these ladies... repeat.”

“Hy care not for dese... ladies.”

“Better,” said Mr Nightingale brightly. The little tenor clearly had the patience of a saint. “Let's just do the first word, shall we? See if you can say 'I' rather than 'hy', if you can.”

“I,” said Maxim.

“Excellent! Now, I care...

“I... care...”

“...not...”

“I care... not...”

“...for these ladies,” Mr Nightingale finished, looking encouragingly at Maxim.

“...for dese... these... le... ladies.”

“Well done, Maxim! Can you put that all together?”

“Hy care... I care not for dese... ladies.”

“These ladies. But you were close.”

“These... ladies.” Maxim frowned. “Dis is really hard.”

“Yes... ah... maybe we ought to start with something in German,” Mr Nightingale suggested. “Although you do still have a strong accent, even then.”

“Hy been tokking like dis for two hundred und fifty years,” said Maxim. “Iz not easy to change now.”

Mr Nightingale blinked. “Two hundred and fifty years?!”

“The Jägers are old, Mr Nightingale,” I said. “Maxim, apparently, is one of the younger ones.”

His eyes gleamed. “Why,” he exclaimed. “Maxim, you were around when Purcell was alive!”

“Vell, hy dun tink hy killed him,” replied Maxim.

Mr Nightingale blinked, evidently at a complete loss. “Maxim has always been a soldier,” I explained. “And no, Maxim, you didn't kill him. Purcell is supposed to have died of a surfeit of chocolate.”

Maxim grinned. “Vot a vay to go! He had der right idea, dat keed.”

“Kid?” asked Mr Nightingale, a little stunned.

“When you're Maxim's age, everyone's a kid,” I explained. “You. Me. The late great Henry Purcell.”

“Well. Ah. Yes. Great Scott.” He paused. “Er, my lord.”

“It seems to me that we are going to have an impasse here if we are not very careful,” I said. “So, Maxim. Do you know of any love songs which are meant to be sung in the accent you already have? I think that would be a lot easier than trying to change it.”

“Vell, dere is Jäger luff songs,” said Maxim. “But Mister Nightingale here iz a very proper und decent Englishman like hyu iz, und dey vould make his ears go red.”

Mr Nightingale turned slightly pink at the mere thought, but he was a fine professional. “In what language are those songs written?” he enquired.

“Dey iz in Yerman, mostly.”

“Very well. In that case, I suggest that perhaps we practise with some less, ah, shall we say, colourful material in the same language, and we don't worry about the accent. Then you can use the skills you've learnt to sing whatever else you wish.”

“Dat vould be goot!” said Maxim happily. “Den hy vill serenade my lady luff.”

Mr Nightingale beamed. “I'm always happy to help with that. Is she another Jäger, may I ask?”

“No, she iz General Hildegarde von Donau,” replied Maxim proudly. “Der terror of von Blitzengaard's forces. Zo, hy better sing really goot.”

“I... can see I'm going to have a most interesting time here,” said Mr Nightingale.

“Don't worry,” I said. “If it ever gets too interesting, feel free to drop in at the embassy. There will always be a cup of tea for you. We've even got our own piano, if that appeals.”

He brightened. “That's most kind of you, my lord. Would you like me to tune it?”

“Feel free,” I said.

“And... since I'm here, is there anything I need to know about my principal pupil?”

“Aristide?” I said. “Good voice, light tenor very much in your style, though with a different timbre, of course. He is a decent young man at heart, but he has a quick temper and can be quite harsh at times. However, he does genuinely wish to learn, so I doubt you will have much trouble with him.”

“Ah,” said Mr Nightingale, with evident relief. “Just normal, then.”

“Yes,” I agreed, with a smile. “Just normal.”


End file.
